


Words, Certain Withheld

by bazsucks



Category: IT - Stephen King, it 2019 - Fandom
Genre: Ben being a Good Friend!, Confessions, Driving, Drunken Confessions, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, First Kiss, Fluff, Hotel, M/M, Make Outs, Richie is so in love, Smoking, Thank You Bill Hader For My Life, The Jade Of The Orient, The Town Inn, angst if you squint, hotel room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 18:29:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazsucks/pseuds/bazsucks
Summary: “Why do you keep calling me that?”“What?”“Bro, buddy, pal..” Richie lists off, his hands digging into his jacket pockets. They aren’t facing each other anymore. They’re a few steps away from each other, but if they weren’t, they’d be shoulder to shoulder.“What do you mean?”“You never used to call me stuff like that.”__________________________________________Alternatively: It's the first night back in Derry, and Richie is so fucking screwed.





	Words, Certain Withheld

**Author's Note:**

> writing this was like wrestling an alligator: i had no clue what the hell i was doing through the entire experience. but i think, all in all, the fact that i survived proves i did pretty good. 
> 
> this is dedicated to my lovely friend grace (@edward-tozier) for always being ready to discuss reddie scenarios with me. without her i probably wouldn't have been motivated enough to finish this! everyone say thank you grace!

Richie had been to plenty of expensive dinners. Whether that’s networking execs wanting to meet the man they’re about to pump money into, an agent trying to gauge whether to sign him or not, the god awful date thrown in the mix every few months (or years) – Richie knows the telltale signs of how expensive dinners work.

If it’s in a crowded but highly raved about ‘new big name’ for A-list alums and their managers, where you can barely move your arms an inch behind you – you’re getting signed to a label.If it’s got old grey, wooden floorboards and burlap table cloths, then you’re eating low-grade ravioli, and you’re maybe getting laid tonight, if you’re lucky. Or if the other person is bored enough.

But surrounding a huge, resounding, ocean of a table, with expensive napkins, at a do-it-yourself Chinese BBQ with your old best friends which you’ve just discovered were indeed your old best friends?

Well, Richie has no idea what that means. Richie’s starting to think he never knew what any of this meant. The Losers Club. When he got the call, he knew he had to come. If was just what had to happen. Like a magnet, but the magnet was cocaine, and the cocaine was actually ketamine, and -

And ketamine was Eddie Kaspbrak.

Eddie. _Eddie_. That’s the magnet. Sitting one chair away. Richie looks at him. He looks so.. stuffy. Stuffy sweater. Stuffy jacket. Arms crossed. Eyes flickering between Bev, Bill and Ben, with a hand up to his face, on his mouth – watching their conversation, as glasses clink, and words exchange. Stuffy.

Richie watches, from one chair away, until he realizes Bill’s speaking to him, and Eddie’s looking right at him. His shoulders tense.

“So, Rich,” Bill starts. Half his glass is empty, and he’s drinking a ‘nice rusty German’, as he had said earlier. Richie doesn’t remember Bill as the kind of guy to say ‘rusty German.’ It’s almost foreign in his ears, to see all his friends say all this.. adult stuff. He’s expecting someone to pull out a Spiderman comic any minute now, and for someone else to ask him to pass the Jawbreakers. “You were about to leave for London, right, when you got the call?”

Richie’s a mouthbreather, so his mouth hangs open as he thinks about his answer. He’s still stuck on just how different Bill looks. No more Spiderman comics. More mortgages.

“Yeah.” He pushes out, fast. “Kind of. I had one last show in the states, then it was right off to _gohd oalde Landan_,” He fakes an accent near the end, and Beverly smiles, wine glass in hand. Her eyes crinkle at the sides. Of course, she’s aged beautifully.

Bill’s put down his German by now, and is touching at his hands. “That’s amazing, Rich, you must get to see so many places, touring like that.”

Richie nods silently, but he’s not smiling. He looks down into his plate. _Yeah, Bill, _he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Because it’s been 27 years. _I do get to see a lotta ladies, too, like your mom! _

No more Spiderman comics.

“Yeah,” He repeats, tight lipped. “I, uh, I bombed it,” He looks back up at Bill, and does a self-deprecating smile in his direction. His eyes flicker around to each respective seat. Except one. “That last show, I completely stunk it up. I went out there, ha,” He takes a sip of his water. He hasn’t looked at Eddie since Bill asked that question.

“I walked out, and I said,” He raises one hand, flexed out to show his palm, mimicking his stance from just a few nights ago, on stage. “My name is Richie Trashmouth!”

Beverly chortles out a loud laugh, immediately. “You did not!”

“I did! I said, ‘my name is-‘” He starts again, putting his arm down. He’s always had a nice back and forth with Beverly, once they really got to know each other. He remembers now, as he looks at her hair shining in the lantern light – the awful things he said to her. He deliberately would try to make her feel outside the group, like she was a guest. Like an invite. Like no girls were allowed.

He has to apologize later tonight. Or tomorrow.

“What’d the audience say?” Eddie chirps in, and Richie almost forgot he was even there, what with how much he’s been ignoring looking into his gorgeous fucking doe eyes all night. (Seriously, what’s with his fucking eyes, it’s like they’ve just grown bigger, browner, and more disgustingly soulful with every passing year. Fucking annoying.)

“Uh, if I remember correctly,” Richie takes a moment to dramatically lean back in his seat, and tilt his head upwards, as If he were an audience member sitting in one of the top rows of a stadium, then, he mimicks the voice of an angry New Yorker to the best of his abilities.

“You fohcking _suck_, bro!”

Everyone laughs, and it’s not familiar at all. Sure, Richie’s a comedian, he’s plenty used to hearing everyone in the room laugh except for him, whether that’s audiences, talk show hosts, fans, whatever, but this crowd..

This crowd. He could _never_ get this crowd to laugh with him. Only at him, or in silence. Or telling him to shut the fuck up, or punching him, kicking..

But never laughing. The only people he could ever really make laugh out of this lot was, well, Stan, and sometimes, rarely, Eddie. Maybe they’re laughing because they’re nervous. Maybe it’s the few glasses of wine, or beer, or the like. They didn’t have that when they were kids. Not until high school. Even then, they didn’t laugh along with him.

And even then, Eddie didn’t look at him the way he’s looking at him now. Richie’s not sure if it’s actually real – if the residual of his long-gone crush on Eddie is somehow still there, telling him lies, making him see things that aren’t happening, that aren’t real or significant at all – like Eddie lowering his gaze to look down at Richie’s chest, examining his shoulders. Like Eddie wetting his bottom lip by slowly running his tongue over it. Like Eddie looking back up, now at Richie’s hair.

Maybe, just maybe, Richie’s only noticing this because of a certain sexuality realization he had in college, and now, all of a sudden, he can’t stop seeing things through the lens of the _Gay Guy Glance_ as opposed to the ‘perfectly acceptable looking at your old buddy from school’ lens.

Regardless of what it is, Richie fidgets in his seat, and keeps focusing on Eddie _maybe or maybe not_ checking him out in his peripheral vision.

The conversational tone shifts, someone laughs, someone yells, someone slaps the table. Richie wasn’t paying attention, but he laughs out anyway. Eddie does too, and Richie finally sneaks a glance, only to catch Eddie doing the same. Their eyes meet. There’s only one seat between them, really, if you think about it, Richie could just.. just, open his mouth and -

“Hey, chicken shit. You work out?” spews out. Like trash. Out of a downtown disease-ridden dumpster. On fire. 

“Yeah, I work out, of course I work out, Rich, do you not work out? You really should, ‘cuz-“ Eddie keeps going, and Richie’s standing up halfway through his own, less dumpster-y spewing, and sits on the chair between them. Stan’s. _Oh well._

Richie firmly knocks his elbow down into the mahogany, and eyes Eddie up, now having another chance to really look at him. His clothes are so.. boring. He looks so normal. Now, Richie wasn’t expecting Eddie to show up in tiny, tiny, red shorts but..

“Seriously, Rich, I can see the malnutrition in your _veins_, you are not going to win this.” Eddie’s mouth is tucked up into a sly smile. Richie remembers seeing that smile before, but the others were never present to see it. Beverly whoos, and Richie’s pretty sure they’re all trying to get a different chant going, so it all kind of just jumbles into noise, with four people each trying to chant different words. Vaguely, from the direction of Bill, he thinks he hears _kiss, kiss, kiss,_ but he can’t be sure.

It’s wishful thinking, if anything.

Richie looks in front of him, and right into Eddie’s eyes, and smiles. Really smiles. He thinks, maybe, that Eddie does too, before he smacks his elbow down adjacent to his, and grabs his hand.

His skin is rough, like he’s been using his hands for hard work, for years, and sure, he has, but Richie really took Eddie as the kind of man to reapply his hand lotion every three hours, or like, at least once a day, but no, the skin is rough. He feels the scar. A hard, keloid, bump under his skin. It feels.. good. It feels the same as Richie’s. Because it connects them, in a way.

He’s kind of happy the scars never faded.

Eddie tightens his grip, and raises his eyebrows. “Count us down?”

Richie snaps out of the thoughts clouding his mind. _Hands. Scars. Eyes._ Counting. Counting.

“Yes.” He nods. “Uh,” He readjusts his grip on Eddie’s hand, and the way the skin slides against his, the tiny rough noise it makes, sends an actual shiver up Richie’s spine, and he hears Mike yell ‘come on, already!’ and someone agreeing with him.

“On three?”” Eddie semi-shouts over the others. They are so gonna get a noise complaint from the surrounding rooms. Or the waiter. Richie nods.

“One.. two,” Richie grips Eddie’s hand tighter, and tries not to remember the last time they held hands. The stinging. That awful cut from the jagged glass Bill dug through their palms. Eddie’s hand felt heavy from the weight of the plaster cast. The tall, dry grass of the Barrens irritating his ankles. Eddie’s idiotic, stupid wrist watch his psychotic mother had made him wear, beeping off in the distance. The blood that flowed from both their hands.

“Three!”

Eddie’s immediately trying to win, going for gold, and pushes all his strength into Richie’s arm immediately, and Richie, completely lost in Eddie’s eyes, hears the back of his hand slam against the table before he’s even a mile close to registering that he just lost immediately upon arrival – just looks off as Eddie starts laughing right in his face.

Finally, he comes to, and shakes his head. “Wait, wait,” he starts, looking around at the others finally. Beverly’s pointing a finger in his face and calling him something, Bill’s laughing, so is Ben, and Mike is shaking his head from what Richie can only assume is second hand embarrassment.

“I was distracted!” He shouts out. This feels more familiar. Way more familiar. It makes him feel warm. This feels real.

“Hell no, dickhead, I won, ‘cuz you’re the chicken shit!” Eddie retorts immediately. Jesus.. Eddie’s really fired up. Or maybe, after so many years of Richie being the fast talker, smart mouth, Eddie’s finally ready to try and overtake him as King Trashmouth.

Well, that just won’t do.

“I was just so lost in your eyes, Eds,” Richie smiles, an entirely different tone to his voice now, deliberate, put on, sexy, and he reaches a hand forward to caress Eddie’s cheek. Beverly goes shrieking off with laughter. “I can’t be blamed, you’re too _distracting_.”

Eddie shakes him off, and to Richie’s surprise, he doesn’t immediately tell him go fuck off and die, and rather, smiles. Wide. Happily. And responds: “Yeah, well, clearly, that’ll be your downfall.”

Richie has no idea what to make of that. Because.. well. Yeah.

“Try me. Round two.”

It _will_ be his downfall.

__________________________________________

Richie let Eddie win in the same way that snow lets the sun melt it. Slowly but surely. Always and forever. When they had all emerged from the restaurant, Richie was only feeling about eighty percent ashamed of himself for having snapped at a fan. Though, really, if you think about it, the kid wasn’t really a fan of Richie, and more a fan of his redundant ghost writer, Ron.

_Just another day at the job, _he’d thought, after muttering ‘_I don’t write my own material_’, and trotting off and out of the building, Eddie riding his coattails with jabbing comments. He’d have to ask him about that later. How the hell did Eddie ‘know’ he doesn’t write his own material, if Eddie didn’t even know Richie really existed until a few days ago?

Maybe it’s different. Maybe Eddie remembers more. Maybe Richie just wants to forget Derry more than the rest. They still have good memories here. They have happy first kisses. First dates. Richie has nothing here, in that regard.

The parking lot outside the restaurant inhabits nothing but a dozen or so cars, and cold, lofty wind, almost swishing from side to side. Richie’s ears feel cleared, after what must’ve been two hours worth of that awful Chinese music blasting over the speakers. That’s not to mention his company’s near constant yelling.

His ears were so used to working overtime, all the noises to keep up with, that now that they’re all gone, the silence that replaces them almost feels eerie. Like when you leave a movie theatre, after watching a loud action movie. Everything is so.. cleared. It’s the same reason he jumps when he hears Eddie’s voice from near, behind him.

“Hey, man,” Eddie waits for Richie to turn around, and when he does, he has a positive facial expression – not a smile, not quite there. But his features are happy. Relaxed. He’s got his hands stuffed in his front pockets. Richie’s expression is blank.

“Yeah..?” He blinks. God.. how did they talk when they were kids? How did Richie just.. burst like that? He remembers it, sure, but he can’t.. conjure it up anymore. He can’t just talk. He can’t just let go. It gets caught now, the words that used to fly out his yapper, loud, confident, angry, what have you. They stay inside now. That happened with age.

But with Eddie..

With Eddie, he’s never held any of those words back. Because he was too busy holding entirely different words back from _him_. There was no room left for the normal, annoying shouts. He had to make space for the words that under any circumstance could _not_ leave his fucking mouth.

“Can I ride along with you? It feels kind of,” Eddie looks to the side, where his own car is parked. It’s nice. Shiny. Richie doesn’t know shit about cars. “Ridiculous, for us all to drive home in individual cars. The environment, y’know?”

Richie nods, and digs a hand into his jacket pocket, fumbling his keys out and finding the little black block of plastic that the car dealership manager had given to him and very clearly said ‘_this open car’_. It does, when Richie clicks the lock on/off button. It chirps, and he swears he sees the whisper of a smile cross Eddie’s features before he’s moving past him, towards the front row passenger seat.

The air whips, and lashes out at Richie as he moves to the car as well. A lock of his hair goes upright, at an angle, and Richie tousles it downwards in what you’d only describe as a slap-and-tussling motion.

When he sits down, it’s not exactly awkward. It’s just extraordinarily quiet. Ears. Cleared. Eddie. Not speaking to Eddie. So weird. He looks to his rearview mirror to make sure Mike or Bill, what have you, aren’t standing behind the car. They’re talking about something, the two of them. It looks serious.

As the car turns on, Eddie makes some comment about how nice the interior looks, and whether or not that’s real leather, because, _y’know, Rich, a lot of scam companies actually use- _

Richie looks out the windshield. His mind is back on those words he can’t say. The words specifically hidden from Eddie, intentionally, and from everyone else, just kind of as a side effect. The words he’s only ever whispered to himself at night.

_I’m in love with you. I’m gay. You shouldn’t let your mom treat you like this. I’m gay. You’re beautiful. _

Richie lets his fingers wrap tightly around the steering wheel. He’s normally not one to speed but.. this is fucking Derry. Who’s gonna check him? When they make it out to the main road, he hits the gas a _little _too hard. He can tell Eddie’s looking at him, so he makes a quick, tiny, glance to his side of the front rows. Then, he moves a hand over and presses the button behind the wheel that rolls down the windows automatically. Suddenly, the loud, encapsulating sound of wind, like white noise, static, fills their ears. Finally. Noise again. Richie swallows a breath.

“What?”

Eddie’s gripping the handle in the roof of the car. This car is on some designer bullshit, so it doesn’t even really look like there’s a handle there. It’s sleek, and hidden, but trust Eddie to find it.

“Nothing!” Eddie yells back, clearly more effected by the wind. But when Richie looks over at him, he’s smiling. Really smiling. He turns his eyes back to the road, just to catch Ben’s car whizzing by him, and only a second after, a clear, loud car horn _honks_ aggressively through the night life noise.

The wind is cold, and it hits Richie’s face harshly, and he hears more distant honks as he watches Ben’s lights slowly pass out into the horizon. Richie doesn’t notice it, but a smile spreads across his face. _Alright, _he thinks. _Maybe I do have something in Derry. _

Eddie laughs, and it sounds like he didn’t even mean to laugh, and yet it happened. Gloriously. Like it came from heaven, or somewhere higher. It dances out of his mouth, and Richie savors it like he’s having the first bite of his favorite dessert.

They run into a red light, and that’s perfectly alright with Richie, because he’s not about to play cops and robbers with Ben and Beverly in Ben’s fucking batman.. car.. thing. What the fuck is that thing? A corvette? No. Maybe.

“_Richie_..” He hears, sing-songy and lovely, from next to him. “Rich..”

Richie blinks, and maybe his eyes close for a half a second too long as he lets himself drown in the sound of Eddie saying his name. _Say it again, just one more time.. _

“Dillweed! Light’s _green_! Go!”

___________________________

The Town Inn is entirely vacant. For their entire stay so far, it has been. Something about the owners trusting Mr. Denbrough, the widely famous writer/director, and Mr. Hanscom, the widely _rich_ man who put down a huge deposit sum for their rooms (just in case they trashed them) really compelled the owners to not give a shit what the gang decided to do with the inn. It’s probably gonna be up for leasing soon, just like The Capitol.

It kind of just feels like Ben’s rented them a three story house to play nicely in. You wouldn’t think it, but Richie kind of likes that.

As they step in, Eddie first, and Richie, behind him, he hears everyone else in the lounge. Guess they took a different route. Eddie immediately makes it over to the bar, shouting, _hey, Rich, come look at this, _or something along the like.

Richie’s stuck though. He looks at the staircase. Then to the floor. He can imagine exactly how much fun it’d be to hang out here as kids. He can almost see it: Beverly, running carelessly down the stairs, Bill, chasing her. Eddie, laying in the lounge couch with one leg up on the arm rest, the other on the side of the couch, slouched with a Space Avengers comic book in his hands. Wearing those fucking shorts. Richie would.. he would walk over, fourteen, or fifteen, whatever, and sit down _right_ next to Eddie’s head, and Eddie would lift himself up just to hit Richie on the head with his comic, and Richie..

Well, Richie would’ve been in love.

All of them would’ve had so much fun here. No adults. No supervision. His friends.

Richie’s _drunk_, not black out drunk, but he can feel it in his steps, when he walks into the lounge and plops down on a lounge chair in front of the coffee table, adjacent to Eddie on the couch, (though Eddie has opted for sitting on the couch like a normal person with both shoes on the floor, contrary to Richie’s imagination Eddie. A shame. It goes with age, it really does.) he can’t help but realize one thing.

They’re the adults now.

As he looks to Beverly’s hands, holding a bottle, at the bar, her hands; wrinkled, but delicately. Appropriate for her age. Slightly dry, maybe. The old imprint, and sun lines, of a wedding ring, slowly fading. He looks around the room. It’s like every square inch of this place is carpeted. The floor, with a golden swirly pattern, the curtains, rich deep red and gold details. Medium brown wooden walls. It’s so.. it’s so eighties. It’s so his _childhood_, it hurts. He looks to Beverly again. Her aged hands, again.

They’ve become the supervision they were trying to avoid.

“Jesus, Rich, I know I said this was serious, but man, lighten up,” Mike calls from behind him, slamming a hand onto Richie’s shoulder. He doesn’t jump. But he gets close to. “No killer clowns tonight. Here,” Mike’s arm swoops into his field of vision, and so does a shot glass of clear, wobbly liquid. “come on, Trashmouth.”

“No, wait!” Eddie exclaims, and slams his own glass into the coffee table in front of them. “Do it with your mouth again!”

Richie smiles, more surprised than happy. Eddie does too. Mike repositions the shot glass in his hand, and lowers it, so Richie can take it in his mouth, easily. Ben shouts something, Beverly screams ‘_you whore_!’ and Bill claps as Richie expertly knocks it back. He keeps it on his mouth though, with his teeth, and makes a show of sticking his gross, big tongue into the now empty shot glass, very akin to the image of a dog, trying to lick peanut butter out of a slowly emptying jar.

It’s gross, and Eddie wrinkes his nose, but smiles nonetheless. Richie drops the shot glass, and is suddenly very thankful for the fact that the Town Inn’s lounge is a _carpeted_ area. It lands with a soft thud on the floor.

Amongst the hollering, and Bev calling him a _cheap slut_ (and really, you’d think he and Bev went to college together, considering how much she seems to know about his sexual exploits), Richie makes eye contact with Eddie. “You just wanna see me use my mouth,” He tries on for size.

“Maybe,” Eddie makes a show out of philosophically raising his eyebrows, and looking down into the carpet. At the shot glass. “You’ve been quiet all night, dude. It’s fuckin’ weird, get that mouth yapping again, or I’ll do it for ya.”

Richie makes a facial expression that he doesn’t even register, but which can only translate into a solid ‘what?’, and he must be right, because Eddie immediately laughs, and says, “I don’t fucking know, I haven’t drank more than a glass of wine in like, ten months.”

At first he’s quiet. He hears Bill chuckle, and sees him nod. And then.. well, then Richie doubles over in his seat laughing, and Eddie tells him to cram it, but he can’t help himself: imagining Eddie sitting there, with his ugly wife next to him, with a well done, way over cooked steak, with a glass of red on the side. It’s ridiculous. It’s horrendous.

It’s not the Eddie he remembers. The Eddie he remembers ate five jumbo lollipops (after smoking half a joint) in a row during a night out to a neighbouring town. It’d been in their senior year. Eddie had been allowed to leave town for one night, to go to a New Order concert with Richie, Bill and Stan.

After the concert, Bill had driven them out into an abandoned field, and they’d sat in the car and talked, and smoked, until Richie climbed out the window, and jumped onto the roof of the car. It was an awful choice. He had been wearing shorts, and to this day he can still feel his bones shake at how cold it had been. The metal against his skin. The wind. Dark, shadowed trees surrounding them. The stars in the dark sky.

Eddie had joined him up there, after a few minutes, quarter-half-baked and off his rocks. Eddie had actual peach fuzz on his face then. Eddie _shaved._ They sat up there, and Bill and Stan stayed in the front row seats of the car, probably talking about something completely irrelevant.

Richie’s looking directly into the carpet now. Inspecting the gold details of the pattern. Eddie’s talking with Mike, and they aren’t on the roof of any cars.

Beverly is going upstairs.

Eddie’s legs had crossed over Richie’s that night, on the car roof. His skin had burned there, from the sudden heat shared between them. He had heard owls in the distance.

Richie puts a hand up to his face, takes his glasses off, and squeezes around the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on. He needs sleep. He can hear Eddie’s voice, talking more about his apartment in New York, and the sudden reminder that Eddie is not, in fact, seventeen, on the roof of an old beat up, cold car in the middle of who the fuck knows where, telling secrets with Richie and eating lollipops next to him, almost crushes Richie entirely.

He has a _wife._ He has a life. He might even have kids, Richie isn’t sure. Eddie’s forty-something. Richie’s forty-something. Jesus Christ.

Richie finishes off a glass of whatever, he’s not sure what, because it’s not Richie’s drink, but it tastes good, and then Richie stands up, and walks out of the lounge area and out to the parking spaces in front of the Inn, and doesn’t hear any protest, even if there is one.

_I’m in love with you. I’m gay. You shouldn’t let your mom treat you like this. I’m gay. You’re beautiful. _

He almost told him. That night. On the car roof. Really. He almost did.

_________________________________ 

It’s cold, this night too. The street lamps are still on. He’s not sure what time it is, because his phone is still in the jacket he left on the lounge chair. It’s not cold enough for him to go back in and get it.

So.

He stares out into the surrounding area. The sky is dark, almost black. All he hears is subtle wind, and tiny noises. The kind of tiny noises he used to fall asleep to every night. He always sleeps with a window cracked, no matter what time of year it was, no matter where he is. His mom used to give him grief about it every single winter morning. He didn’t remember the sound of her voice until he got to Derry.

He puts his hands in his jean pockets, and surely enough, there’s a lighter in the right front pocket. He checks his back pockets next. Damn. His pack of cigarettes must be left in his jacket, inside.

Richie isn’t sure if he’s happy about that, or bothered. Because really, while he does want to smoke right now, he’s not sure he’s entirely appealed by the thought of a cigarette he’d been sitting on all night. He pulls the lighter out though. It’s cheap, neon blue and plastic. He flicks it.

The fire flickers a bit, until it turns steady. The flame still moves when he hears a whoosh of wind rolling in from his left. He looks up into the street. No one’s there.

He lets go of his grip on the lighter’s ignition.

“Hey, _buddy_, I figured you needed this.” He hears, behind him. Of course he registers the voice immediately. It’s Eddie, because _it’s Eddie, _who else would it be, walking up to him with his jacket in one hand, outstretched towards Richie?

It’s Eddie, and he takes the jacket, and holds it loosely to his chest, looking down at it, and lifts it slightly as he says: “Thanks.”

It’s Eddie, and he’s saying; “No problem, bro.”

Richie readjusts his tongue in his mouth. His eyebrow twitches. Eddie watches him closely, but Richie doesn’t know that, because he’s busy solemnly putting on his jacket, and feeling for his pack of cigs in each pocket when it’s on. They’re in the inside pocket, but he’s not about to pull them out in front of Eddie. Years of scolding, he remembers clearly.

Eddie, to Richie’s surprise, stays standing there. He can faintly hear loud music coming from the inside of the Inn now.

Richie looks to Eddie. Why is he out here? Eddie doesn’t smoke. Maybe he’s waiting for Richie to start smoking, just so he can jump down Richie’s throat about it as soon as he takes a puff. Maybe he’s waiting for something.

The wind whistles as it flies on through the air, gone from them as fast is it arrived.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Richie breaks the silence, and then he looks off to the side.

“What?”

“Bro, buddy, pal..” Richie lists off, his hands digging into his jacket pockets. They aren’t facing each other anymore. They’re a few steps away from each other, but if they weren’t, they’d be shoulder to shoulder. Or, err.. as close as Eddie’s shoulder can get to Richie’s.

“What do you mean?”

Richie can see now that Eddie’s turned to face Richie. He doesn’t move.

“You never used to call me stuff like that.” Richie’s looking to the ground. God, this is so weird. He should be making everyone laugh, he should be talking about his new show, or offering Eddie tickets in New York, or asking about his fucking wife. Whether or not they’re gonna have kids. But no, he talks about.. back then. As if Eddie remembers it any more than Richie does, which is, like, 2% of all access memories.

He barely remembers half of it, and yet it’s all he can think about.

Ever since he remembered that he’s been in love with Eddie almost his entire life, it’s all he can focus on. _I dare you to blame me, _he thinks_, _into the silence. He doesn’t realize why, but he’s speaking it to _It_ in his head. He dares _It_ to ask.

Eddie turns entirely to face Richie. Richie doesn’t move, still just looking out into the vacant parking lot. He hears Eddie take a breath.

“Don’t tell me you just came out here for the fresh air.” He says. Richie’s brain buffers.

“What?”

“Come _on, _Rich. Offer me a fucking cigarette, already.”

_Oh. _Richie turns to him, now, and suddenly, Eddie starts walking, and before even thinking about it, Richie follows. Eddie, it turns out, is pretty much as demanding as he’s always been, and he sits on the fire escape stairs and looks up at Richie with raised eyebrows, as if Richie is just supposed to know what the fuck to do in this scenario.

He sits down next to him on the rickety staircase. Metal. Grey. It looks black, in the dark of night. The metal buttons on his jeans scrape against the metal and the chipping paint. There’s just enough space on one stair to fit both of their adult asses, and Richie kinda bumps into Eddie’s side when he digs into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a pack of Chesterfield Clicks.

“Oh my god,” He hears from beside him, and it sounds like it fell out of Eddie’s mouth on accident. And then, very deliberate laughter. “You fuckin’ smoke _clicks?_”

Richie furrows his brow, and opens the pack, and cocks his head. A wind blows through his hair. “What’s wrong with smoking clicks?”

He reaches into the pack and swiftly gives one to Eddie, who holds it with a kinship to someone who has just been given a steaming turd. “_Hurr durr_,” Eddie says, putting on a dumb mocking voice. He places the cig into his mouth and lets it dangle from his bottom lip. Richie smiles. “I’m Richie Trashmouth, I was raised in the eighties, but I want my cancer to be _spearmint-flavored_.”

Richie finds himself laughing, his back bumping into the staircase as he stares at Eddie with a dumbfounded, _bitch did you just_ smile. “Very, _very_ bold words coming from the little _twerp_ who used to knock cigarettes clean out of me and Bev’s hands!”

Eddie smiles, and has good enough of a conscience not to fire off any rebuttals. Richie shakes his head, and hands him the lighter. Eddie flicks it on in one try, and suddenly, Richie’s staring at him, or more accurately, his face.

The fire illuminates not only the end of his cigarette, but all of Eddie’s gorgeous features. His eyelashes cast a shadow against his cheeks. His eyebrows look darker, and so does his hair. Richie realizes only now, in the golden cast of the flame, creating little flicker marks in his glasses, how close they’re sitting. Their thighs are touching. His knees are bent awkwardly, but he doesn’t care.

The words, those pesky words, bubble back up in his throat.

_I’m in love with you. I’m gay. You shouldn’t let your mom treat you like this. I’m gay. You’re beautiful. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more than I’ve wanted to kiss you, all these years. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, and then forgetting, and then seeing again. _

He swallows them down, and pulls another cig out from the pack, and accepts the lighter Eddie hands him. Richie looks up, into the dark night sky. There’s stars, but they aren’t as present as he remembers them being that night, on the roof of the car. And then..

A drop of water. Firm. Lands right on his glasses, and glides down the glass in one little swoop, and falls down onto his cheek. He looks to Eddie.

“It’s gonna start raining.” He says, neutrally. Eddie furrows his brow, lightly. They hear a few more drops of water fall and land on the metal staircase. They’re really just a few drops, but Richie’s lungs and ears and eyes are working overtime, looking into Eddie’s eyes, and the sounds are monstrously loud in the silence of the night. With Eddie _so close_.

“Okay,” He says, and takes a deep intake. The fire at the end of the cigarettes roars awake, and lights the paper further. Richie watches Eddie’s mouth as he forms a little ‘o’ and blows. “Let’s just finish these, and head inside.”

“Okay.” Richie looks out in front of them.

He swallows his words, just like he always did back then.

_____________________________________

His hair is slightly damp, and it’s curling up near his ears and a tuft falls over onto his forehead, as he steps into the lounge again. Eddie goes straight for the lounge couch again, where Beverly has returned, immediately dragging Eddie into the conversation again. Richie takes a deep breath, and heads for the staircase.

He’s in room 004. The floorboards creak under his feet. It’s not necessarily that they’re old, they just.. creak. Kind of like Richie’s bones. His eyes are heavy. It’s so great to be back with his friends, it’s so great _remembering_ that he had friends. But the rest..

He could really do without the rest. He’s opening his room door when he feels a hand on his shoulder, strong, big.

“Hey, Rich,” It’s Ben. As if Richie needs anymore of a reminder how unattractive he is. He smiles, though. He remembers picking on Ben too much. Making one too many fat jokes, a couple of times.

“Hey, dude.” He answers, and scratches his neck. It’s not awkward. It does feel good. To be back with his friends. He just needs a break from..

Well, he needs a break from the absolute, black-hole-esque gravitational pull that is the love he has for one Eddie Kaspbrak. 

Ben shifts his weight from one leg to another. Richie notices, because Ben is fucking tall now. “Aren’t you coming back downstairs?”

Richie, ever the mouthbreather, opens his mouth too fast, and goes, “Uuuuuh,” as he looks around the hallway. “Yeah, I will, I just gotta, like, make a phone call. You know, managers.” He ends with a smile.

“Oh, right.” Ben, who in fact, doesn’t, _you know, managers. Because he’s the owner of his own goddamn company,_ Richie thinks, _and I’m just a marketed puppet._

“Well, come back down soon, okay? I’ll check up on ya,” Ben jokes, and jabs at his arm. Richie smiles, genuinely, as Ben starts to walk away, but the smiles fade as Ben suddenly stops up with an, “_Oh_,” as if he remembered something, he steps back to Richie, and leans in close, whispering.

“And.. um,” Ben looks down to the floor quick. Like he isn’t sure if he’s overstepping. “Eddie’s kind of worried that you’re acting strangely around him, and like, I know that you’re not, because, well- you know,” he trails off. Richie’s blood isn’t so much running cold as it is stopping dead.

“What?” He leans in close too, his voice is scared. Rushed. Does Ben fucking.. know? Does Ben _know, know? _

“Because,” Ben looks up into his eyes. “You and Eddie.. it’s like with me and Bev,” he has the absolute audacity to try and smile at Richie.

“I.. uh,” Richie’s half expecting Ben to turn into a maggoty shadow monster, or a dancing clown, or for oil to start spilling out of his eyes any second now. Nothing happens, except Ben’s damned mouth opens again.

“I just mean.” He tries again, straightening his back. The protective bubble of secrecy is broken. “You’re close. And you’re scared it’s awkward now, right, after all these years?”

Richie’s stunned silent. He wants to flee into room 004 and lock himself in the bathroom. He stays standing.

“But it’s fine. Eddie’s, he’s having a great time. I think he’s worried you’re feeling weird, though. So just,” He shrugs. “Don’t worry. About anything. We’re all gonna figure it all out, tomorrow.”

If only Ben knew that Richie’s been telling himself, _It’s fine, I’ll do it tomorrow _for years, and that it certainly won’t be alright, ever, but of course, he doesn’t. So Richie swallows the absolute lump of bile stuck in his throat, and nods, with the only fake smile he’s had to put on all night, and says,

“Thanks, Haystack. And I know, tell Eddie to stop worrying, I just miss his dear old mom, and it’s really hard this time of year,” he puts on a blubbering, woeful voice, mimicking a crying widow in mourning, and raises a single finger up to his face to wipe away a non-existing tear.

Ben punches his arm and laughs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go call your dude, and join the party, Rich.”

With a smile, and a nod, Richie lets himself into his room, finally, and freaks the fuck out.

_________________________________

It’s after an hour, of frantically searching up whatever the fuck might’ve lead Ben to actually know about Richie and Eddie like _that, _ that he hears a knock on his door.

He smacks closed his laptop, currently stuck on the search results for ‘_Richie Tozier gay?????’,_ and stands up. The door is opening before he gets a chance to open it himself.

“_Richie?”_ Eddie’s voice calls out, the door still not open enough to be able to see him. “This better be your room, I just saw way too much of Bill’s ass, and I’m really not trying to see any more of our friends naked in the pursuit of trying to find your goddamn room.”

Richie squares his jaw. “Uh,” He calls out, the door opens fully. “Hi, Eds.”

“Shut the fuck up,” is all he hears, and then Eddie is marching into Richie’s en-suite bathroom. Seconds later, he hears a small, but assertive ‘damn it,’ from the room.

“Listen, Eds, to barge in here and risk seeing my naked ass is one thing,” Richie calls out, moving his laptop to sit atop his bag, filled, on the floor. “But to demand access to his bathroom and not like what you find in there? Is nothing _holy_ to you?”

Eddie reemerges from the small room, and shakes his head. “I forgot my disinfectants. I was hoping one of these god-forsaken code-violating hell-holes had some cleaning spirit, or some isopropyl alcohol, or something.” He sulks, and then he sits down on Richie’s bed.

Oh. Okay. He looks to the grey walls of his room. _I guess we’re sitting, now. _

He sits next to Eddie.

“It uh,” He starts, looking straight ahead. Why do they keep ending up in his situation? With Richie, sitting next to Eddie, trying not to look at him, and Eddie, next to him, burning, fast and loud, like the brightest star in the galaxy?

How could any merciless God expect Richie not to fall in love? Not to allow himself to stare?

_I’m in love with you. I’m gay. You shouldn’t let your mom treat you like- _

The words start running through his head, but he ends them, stops the train of thought prematurely, because he remembers he’s started a sentence, and he doesn’t want to weird Eddie out by not finishing it.

“There isn’t any. Cleaning gel, or whatever.”’

“Well,” He hears an almost pathetic solemn laugh come from Eddie’s side. “I figured that much, when I looked, just now.”

Richie doesn’t appreciate the ‘tude. Doesn’t this guy know that Richie is very busy googling himself?

“Why the hell are you on my bed, Eddie?” He hears himself say, before he can think it through.

Now..

What he was expecting from this.. was at most, Eddie calling him an ass. Shoving him off. Kicking him in the face. Telling him he’s lucky he even dares place himself on the bed of such a filthy person. What happens, however, is not any of these scenarios. What happens, is the biggest regret of Richie’s life.

Eddie’s face falls. He leans over on the bed, his elbows hit his kneecaps and he puts his head in his hands. Richie looks, dumbfounded. Until he hears what sounds like a _sob_ from Eddie. His spine goes rigid. He immediately moves closer, but doesn’t dare put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Not yet.

“_I don’t know,_” Eddie sobs, pathetically, into his hands. It’s muffled. Loud enough to break Richie’s heart. _“I don’t know why I’m on your fuckin’ bed, Rich.” _

He sounds so.. sad. There’s no need for fancy words. Just.. sad. Richie puts his hand on his shoulder now, and gently motions to pull Eddie out of his own hands. He moves them, and the skin around his eyes is red, but as far as Richie can tell, there thankfully aren’t any tears yet, just slightly formed ones by the rim of his eyes.

His beautiful eyes.

“Woah, Eddie,” Richie’s throat feels tight, but he needs to speak. He doesn’t like the sound of his own voice right now. It’s too.. dude-bro-ish. Too put on. Hiding some part of his words. The feeling behind them. “It’s okay, buddy. You can- you can sit on my bed.”

Eddie laughs, and it’s weird. It’s always weird when people laugh while they cry. Richie’s seen it a lot, he’s done it less. He rubs Eddie’s shoulder firmly. “What’s up?”

The air in the room feels light. Like they’re on a mountain. He can hear happy shouting from downstairs. The music is louder now, with a slight bang, someone must’ve just cranked the volume. He squeezes his shoulder.

“You.” Eddie croaks, with a slight laugh following it.

It feels like all the air in the room is being sucked out through a straw in the ceiling. Richie doesn’t freeze entirely, but the hand on Eddie’s shoulder sure does. Richie vaguely remembers a couple teenage fantasies starting like this, but he shakes the thought out of his head immediately. Not the time.

“Me?”

“You.” Eddie confirms, as hardheaded as ever.

Richie squints. “I’m up?”

“You- no, like,” Eddie straightens his back and looks head on at Richie. Richie wants to hide. “You’ve been acting _weird_, and I think I know why, and it’s so ridiculous because I have a _wife, _but being back _here_, and being with all of you, I guess it just-“ Eddie pauses.

Richie’s brain gets stuck on ‘_I have a wife, but,’ _for a while, so he doesn’t even notice.

Eddie readjusts in his seat. “Okay, so. We’re adults. I can do this.”

Richie blinks, and cocks his head slightly to the side. Eddie smiles, nervously.

“So, like,” His hands go up in the air, gesturing as he speaks. “I had a total pathetic crush on you when we were kids, and, um, it’s weird, cuz I don’t- uh, I have a wife. So obviously..” He trails off, dazed as he looks at Richie, his hands still mid-gesture, gaging his reaction.

Richie is completely stoic. He’s also not quite sure if he’s breathing right now. He places a hand from his lap to the bed, the fabric makes a miniscule little noise. It sounds like a bomb has dropped next to him.

Well. A bomb has dropped, right in front of him.

“I talked to Ben about it.” Eddie adds. “And-“

“You talked to _Ben_ about it?!” Richie snaps out of his daze only to be absolutely shell shocked. “Hold on,” he starts, but Eddie doesn’t let him finish.

“Okay, so, okay,” Eddie starts again. “I always liked you when we were kids, and Ben kind of, like, noticed? He never said he noticed but he would look at us sometimes, and then he’d look at me, and I’d look back and it was like he knew everything without saying anything, I think he wanted to respect, you know, the secrecy of it all, so he never said anything, but earlier, just now, he came up to me _and_-“

“Eddie.”

“-he said all this stuff about how you weren’t being weird on purpose, and that-“

“_Eddie,” _Richie interrupts him again, and he sounds borderline broken. Like he could cry. He could seriously cry. “_Eddie.” _

Eddie finally stops. Richie thinks he’s actually crying, when he reaches out and grabs Eddie’s wrist, mid-gesture again.

He opens his mouth. He thinks of the words. He thinks of the barrens. He thinks of the clubhouse. He thinks of the Spiderman comics, holding one page while Eddie holds the other. He thinks of the fucking clown. Of reaching for Eddie, and knowing he was reaching right back. He thinks of Eddie having a crush on him all this time. It doesn’t register. Does not compute. He thinks of greywater. He thinks of shorts. He thinks of _shut up, Richie_, and _hey, Eddie, are these your birth control pills?, _and _come on, Doctor K_. He thinks of all the trash and garbage words he spewed out, to make sure the truly important ones never fell out.

He kept them locked inside. The words he could never, ever say. Words he’s only ever said to himself, in the dead silence, black abyss that was his childhood bedroom. He only said it once, and then he cried. _I’m gay._ The first time he’d ever said those words to himself, and the first time he’d ever cried silently. Crying and hiding it, on purpose, is the worst kind of crying, he discovered that night.

The room is so quiet.

His shoulders slump. Eddie watches, eyes so very open. Still waiting. Richie squeezes his wrist. The lump in his throat, the one that feels like it’s been there for 31 years, finally, finally..

_I’m in love with you. I’m gay. You shouldn’t let your mom treat you like this. I’m gay. You’re beautiful. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more than I’ve wanted to kiss you, all these years. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, and then forgetting, and then seeing again. _

“I’m in love with you. I’m gay. You’re beautiful, _Eddie_,” he spills. Like a waterfall. Like a house of lies crumbling to the ground.

“Richie,” Eddie says, and Richie doesn’t hear the urgency in his voice, because he can’t stop.

“_I’ve never_, ever, wanted to kiss anyone more than I’ve wanted to k-,”

_Oh. _

Eddie may not be the kind of man to reapply hand lotion every three hours, but maybe he is, regarding chap stick. Eddie’s lips are soft. His hair, the scratchy ones on his face, is rough, and perfect. Just like Richie imagined it would be, that night on the roof of the car.

He smells a bit like the cigarettes they smoked earlier, and he tastes a bit like the weird substance they drank downstairs, too. Eddie moves his lips fast, hungrily.

Richie can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe he’s even back in fucking Derry, nonetheless kissing Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

“Oh my god,” He pulls away, just for a second, to exclaim, because he’s the biggest idiot on the face of the Earth and is idiotic enough to actually stop kissing Eddie for even a second, and dives right back into another kiss. He’s such a moron, and Eddie’s got his hand in his hair, at the back of his head. It isn’t long before their sides hit the bed, softly, but Eddie makes quick work of climbing between Richie’s legs. Richie thinks he might be seeing stars. His vision is spotty as he looks up at the man on top of him.

“Holy _shit_.” He says, breathing heavy.

“Yeah.” Eddie nods, his eyes just as wild, if not wilder than Richie’s.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks, and Richie isn’t sure if he’s actually expecting an answer because this entire situation is so very fucking _okay_, that Richie isn’t sure if any previous moment of his life before this has _ever_ been okay.

Eddie leans down again, and kisses Richie softly. Their lips leave each other again, this time with a soft little, oh so perfect, noise. Richie closes his eyes in a blink too drawn out. “Eddie,” he says it like it’s breathing. “This is.. so _fucking_ okay,” He reaches up, and puts a hand to Eddie’s cheek, bringing him back down to kiss him again.

But his hands and his brain aren’t working together, because he lifts his head up, straining his neck, just so he can kiss Eddie a second faster. He’d reach for him forever. Lift his head, every time.

Eddie puts his hands down on either side of Richie’s head, and Richie moves, lifting himself up to kiss him. Eddie _makes_ Richie reach for him. He makes him lean up and kiss him. Richie thinks, for a moment, that maybe Eddie is trying to see when Richie will inevitably tire himself out of doing such a laborious task. Richie wants to laugh, because the answer to that study would be entirely unsatisfactory and inconclusive, because-

“Never,” Richie gasps after pulling away from another kiss.

“What?” Eddie says, a smile so carelessly thrown across his face.

“I’m never gonna stop, if you don’t stop me.” Richie isn’t being very coherent, but he doesn’t care, because he slings his long, lanky arms around Eddie’s torso, and using his weight, wills him down to buckle his elbows and land squarely on top of Richie, chest to chest. Eddie’s laughter fills the room.

“Jeez, alright. I was actually just seeing how many half sit ups I could get you to do without realizing it,” Eddie says, but his voice is anything but casual. It’s happy. It’s as far away from ‘_aw_, _jeez’_ as it could possibly get.

Richie presses a fat, wet kiss to his cheek.

“Because you’re the chicken shit here,” Eddie adds. “And I’m stronger than you.”

Richie doesn’t think Eddie has ever been more right. _You’re so strong, Eddie_, he thinks. _You were so brave. Braver than me._

He kisses him again. Eddie readjusts on top of him. They really are at an awkward position. Eddie.. between his legs, pressed flush on top of him. Subconsciously, he feels his grip on the man slip. Eddie lifts himself up again and looks down at Richie, his eyes slightly more serious now. Richie swallows dryly.

“Richie..” Eddie says, with an air of disbelief shrouding his voice. “Did you mean what you said just now?”

Richie could joke. He could pull some lame remark out of his roster of comebacks. But he doesn’t. Because he knows, that whatever Eddie’s talking about, he really and truly meant it. “_Yeah_.”

Eddie leans down and kisses him, and Richie moves a hand up into his hair, from the back of his neck and to the top of his head, and then he grabs onto it, squeezes, and pulls Eddie closer, forcefully.

“_Oh_,” falls out of Eddie’s glorious mouth, as the closeness of their bodies catches up with their brains. He hears rainfall on the windows, slowly but surely starting up again. Richie thinks he wants to spend the rest of his life trying to get Eddie to replicate that sound. Richie’s other arm, the one that isn’t in Eddie’s hair right now, moves to Eddie’s back. The fabric of that ridiculous shirt feels nice. Soft, thin. Such a distracting shade of blue. Eddie, in general, Richie thinks, is entirely made up of distracting shades of everything.

“God, Eddie,” Richie grumbles, subconsciously and literally pulling him closer. “You have no idea how long-“

“How long you’ve wanted this?” Eddie says, pulling back with a sly smile. “I do know, assface, because I’ve wanted it for longer.”

Richie shakes his head no, and before he can even speak again, Eddie’s interrupting. “Yes! I’ve wanted this since we were like.. since we were, like, eighteen, and you were leaving for college and-,”

Richie can’t help but laugh. “Right, like that’s such a long time.”

“It is!” Eddie sounds genuinely mad now, but Richie can’t take it seriously. Since they were eighteen, huh? That’s cute.

“Try ‘_since you were 13’_ on for size, Edward Spaghetward.”

Eddie’s eyes literally boggle out of his skull. Well, not literally, but it’d be fun if they did. They do look very in similar size to teacups, however. Richie grins. Eddie looks at him with a smile and a stunned disbelief energy to him.

“No..”

“_Yees_.” Richie nods, like he’s talking to a child. Richie loosens the arm around Eddie’s waist. Eddie lifts himself up to his knees, and Richie follows, sitting up in fornt of him. Eddie sits, now putting his legs in front of him, crossed.

“I used to daydream about kissing you in maths.” Eddie says, leaning closer, like it’s a challenge. Everything’s a challenge with the two of them, but this, he says like he’s saying _one-up me. _

They had math class together in school. They always sat in desks that were as close as possible to each other’s. Their maths teacher had glasses that looked like Richie’s. He used to flick little bent up notes with lame jokes written in them over to Eddie, and Eddie would grimace at him, or smile, depending on how funny they were.

Richie quirks a brow. Okay, Kaspbrak. You got it.

“I used to lay awake at night and think about holding your hand.”

“Just holding hands? _Seriously_?” Furrowed brow. Judging look.

“W- I was _thirteen_! _Jesus_! Yeah! When we got to around to fifteen, yeah, it was more-,”

“I used to kiss my hand and pretend it was you.” Quick speaking. _Iusedtokissmyhand_, _andpretenditwasyou_.

Richie runs hot with shame. He should shove him, kiss him, make fun of him, call him embarrassing. He doesn’t. “I used my pillow. For more than just that.”

“_No_ way.” Eddie shakes his head, a laugh on the coattails of his words.

_Yes way_. He wants to say_. _He looks into Eddie’s eyes_, yes way, Kaspbrak, yes way I used to lay at night and cry because you made me realize I was fucking gay, and fucking in love with you. Yes way, Eddie, I think you’re the only person I’ve ever really loved, yes way, I used my pillow because I never fucking thought I’d ever have this. You. _

“Eddie,” Richie moves close again, voice soft, and Eddie meets him halfway for a kiss. The sound their lips make together is delectable. Richie can’t get enough. “_Eddie_.”

“I love you.” Eddie responds, and puts his arms around Richie. It’s the natural progression to this conversation, and yet Richie never saw it coming. He said it so easily, as if it were nothing but _true_. Richie lowers his head, until it’s entirely buried in the space between Eddie’s shoulder and his neck. His skin is soft. He smells less like previous cigarettes now. The rain outside has ceased.

“Say it again,” He says, pathetically, and it’s muffled on Eddie’s skin. He can feel Eddie laughing against him.

“You’re such a fuckin’ idiot, Richie.” He hears back. “I love you.”

When he lifts his head, he sees Eddie. His Eddie. The Eddie on the roof of the car, that cold cold night. The Eddie that would kick him in the face because he felt like it. The Eddie that always bought him ice cream if he was getting one for himself. The Eddie everyone used to call ‘Eddie and Richie’. Like they had something special. A duo. The Eddie that would smile approvingly at Richie in maths, and make his stomach drop ten stories every time. He looks back at Eddie, and he sees 27 years ago, Eddie and him, at eighteen, saying goodbye to each other, and promising to ‘call every week, _asshole’,_ before leaving on the train. Never to remember him for another 27 years.

Richie can’t ever be sure, but he’s certain that in this moment, Eddie is seeing him the exact same way.

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> every time i post a fanfiction i am just as scared as i was the first time. i'm worried no one will like this, so go ahead and prove me wrong, or just tell me your thoughts: comments mean more to me than you could possibly know <3


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